


i got a bad desire

by myloveiamthespeedofsound



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst and Smut, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-03 16:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12751749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myloveiamthespeedofsound/pseuds/myloveiamthespeedofsound
Summary: He wasn't that person anymore.  He wasn't the Hero of Kazakhstan rescuing teenage boys in the alley from legions of rabid fans.   And Yuri wasn't a teenage boy anymore.  He was all grown up and capable of making his own decisions.  Besides, despite the past few weeks he wasn't Beka and Yuri wasn't Yura.  They hadn't been for a very long time.There was just Otabek and Yuri. Shadows of people who had once been great.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended listening is the [Chromatics cover of I'm on Fire.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEFTK1stlGo)

 

 _hey little girl is your daddy home_  
_did he go away and leave you all alone_  
_I got a bad desire_  
_I'm on fire_  
_tell me now baby is he good to you_  
_can he do to you the things that I do_  
_I can take you higher_  
_I'm on fire_  
_sometimes it's like someone took a knife baby_  
_edgy and dull and cut a six-inch valley_  
_through the middle of my skull_  
_at night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet_  
_and a freight train running through the middle of my head_  
_only you can cool my desire_  
_I'm on fire_

 

Six years, three continents, and ten countries after Barcelona all that remained of Yura and Beka was this:

Thirty some odd medals, two tattoos, endless mixtapes, a stack of stolen hotel key cards, twelve stuffed animals, one “borrowed" team jacket and countless hoodies. Twenty seven handwritten letters, countless texts and photos. Twelve cheesy souvenir keychains, six photobooth strips, dried flowers from one tossed wedding bouquet, six years of birthday presents, and one ring that had never been given, deemed non returnable when tried by the inscription of _Davai_ in the band.  Two broken hearts and one broken bone. Two lost sense of directions, and a vague sense of incompleteness that no amount of bass, alcohol, one night stands, drugs or money could fill.  
  
Otabek was the first.  A year after he’d taken gold to Yuri’s silver in Beijing - a medal placement that would become a rather large point of contention between the two.  

A torn ligament that he hadn’t had the heart to go through the physio to heal to the point of competing again.  Not when so much else of the world called for him.  Not when skating had started to slip from all that mattered, to it mattered because Yura mattered, to it didn’t much matter at all. 

He was twenty four and he'd won an Olympic gold medal, he had nothing to top.  Months of fights and resentment later and Otabek found himself living stateside for the second time in his life, in an apartment that felt far too quiet without the screaming matches to keep him company.  He threw himself in his music, threw himself in school, threw himself into anything that drowned out the name Yuri Plisetsky. Threw himself into the men and women that threw themselves at him and tried to remember that once he was a person who existed outside of the shadow of an angry blond Russian.  
  
Yuri followed shortly after.  A broken fibula.  Not on the ice but in a club while drunk off his ass on the tail end of a Very Bad Year.  Rumors of rehab had followed him but nothing ever materialized and before long Yuri found himself floundering in the worst of ways.  After all he’d never had a Plan B. He didn't have a hobby, he didn't have friends outside the rink and even all of those had started to move on.  He didn't know who he was outside of what he won. He’d never thought past the ice.  He’d never seen his life as anything other than that constant and all consuming need to be better, be _more_ .  Win and win big.    
  
He’d never figured out how to be a normal person.  And so it became easier to just try to drown that simple fact out with the drugs that let him fly again, with the alcohol that dulled the ache if only for a while.

 

* * *

 

There’s something hypnotizing about a club.  Something that skating never gave him.  The way he could feel the bass right down in his very blood, the way the vibrations felt under his feet, the way it was all encompassing and shut up every little thought that usually went through his head on an endless loop.  Something about the view of a hundred hands in the air, the way the light hits the endless sea of people below him, the way hair looks in the backlight as it flies and whips in time to the beat he sends out.  The energy of it all was something he’d never known he’d been missing until he had in the palm of his hand.  A high no drug could have ever compared to - and he's tried his share.  A high no _medal_ had ever touched.  As awful as that one sounded.

But like every drug, like every skate, it ends before it even begins it feels like and he’s no longer above the crowd but _in it_ .  Another nameless face, another hand in the air.  Another body pressing up against the one closest to it.  Hand curling around slim hips,  messy blond hair in his face. The person against him someone who might have been his height if it weren’t for the heels - black with studs and for a moment there’s the oddest sense of deja vu.  A sense he tries to shove away as he takes a drink from the glass in his hand, swallows hard and fuck if the world doesn’t stop as the stranger starts to turn.  
  
“Can I have some of that -” words that are barely audible over the roar of the music.  Slender fingers curl around the glass and plucks it from Otabek’s hand before he can even answer as green eyes meet brown.    
  
Yuri doesn’t miss a beat.  Doesn’t even look the least bit surprised.  Just downs the glass with a raised brow and hands it back to Otabek.  As though this wasn't earth shattering.  As though Otabek didn't feel like the fucking ground is about to drop from underneath him.  As though it's not like seeing a ghost.  “Nice to know you still drink shit tequila,” he notes and disappears into the crowd.  Otabek can't even move, can't call after him.  Just stands there dumbfounded with an empty glass in his hand and other bodies moving in to fill the space that Yuri had just occupied.  
  
Otabek sees him the next night.  Hands in the air and blond hair a mess halo around those sharp features that have haunted him since he was twelve.  Green eyes like a beacon in the crowd - bright with something that he doesn’t quite recognize.  Something that’s no longer a gold medal, no longer the sound of the crack of the ice, no longer the love they’d once had.  Something that Otabek knows will fade long before the morning light.  Bright like all the other club kids, snorting coke in the bathrooms and trading caps of Molly between handshakes.  
  
And he hates himself but he plays every song that night for Yuri.  
  
A week later it’s three nights in a row.  Two from above in his booth.  A long unfelt but never really forgotten twinge of jealously as other men’s hands roam that body.  Palms on skin left bare by the crop tops and the backless shirts.  Lips hovering in close but never quite touching.  Fingers curling around the jut of a hipbone peering out from the top of low waisted leather pants, and it’s an old knee jerk reaction of _mine_ that runs his blood cold.  And he knows Yuri _knows_ he's watching.  He sees the glint of green eyes from the mass of people, sees the little smirk on the lips he knows all too well.  Sees how Yuri dances _with_ all those other men but it's _for him_ and him alone.  Some fucking _show_ . 

And Otabek… he keeps playing songs just for Yuri. 

The third night is from the dancefloor.   _His_ hands this time.   _His_ lips this time - a breath away from brushing against the shell of an ear.   _His_ fingers curling around that hipbone that echoes like _home_ and reminds him of nights long gone.  Yuri moves against him like they'd never parted, all slow and sensual and _exactly_ in the way he knows that will tear Otabek's resolve apart.  And it’s wrong.  He knows it is.  He put a goddamn fucking _ocean_ between him and Yuri to try to move on.  But it crumbles the instant those fingers lace through his, the second those eyes look up all heavy lidded and pupils blown wide.  As lips part and that tongue darts out to wet them.

And well - Otabek has always had a problem with the word _no_ when it came to one Yuri Plisetsky. 

He finds himself in the back room, a fistful of blond hair as he tilts Yuri’s head and crashes their lips together. It's been years but it feels like no time at all as they kiss. As he pushes Yuri up against the back of the closed door and hears that little moan in the space of a breath between them.  Yuri's tongue slips into his mouth, hot and demanding and Otabek shamelessly juts a knee between Yuri’s thighs. A groan as he feels Yuri harden against him as he grinds down and tries to find friction.

 _“Otabek_ ,” Yuri moans out, almost a whimper and Otabek is fucking gone.

His fingers twist in Yuri’s hair and he tugs. Draws Yuri’s head back and licks a line up the column of his throat. Wonders how he'd lasted these past few years without this. Without the feel of Yuri’s hair between his fingers, the hard angles and edges of this body that had driven him crazy since long before it probably should have. Without the way his name sounds from that pretty little vulgar mouth, all wrapped up in an accent he'd never lose and that edge of anger that laced everything he did.

“What do you want, baby?” he asks. Asks like he doesn't know the answer. Asks like he doesn't have eight years of history to fall back on. Six years of knowing _exactly_ how to fuck Yuri Plisetsky.

Otabek's hand runs up Yuri’s side, under the hem of the crop top and he thumbs at a peaked nipple, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger and smirks at the way it has Yuri withering under his touch. He snakes an arm around Yuri’s waist and tugs him off the back of the door, and pushes him towards the couch in the back room.  He pushes Yuri towards it, watches at the other stumbles forward in studded heels and rests his knees on the cushions.  Otabek crawls a hand up the line of Yuri's spine, notch by protruding notch. 

"Please, Otabek… _please_ ..." Yuri gets out.    
  
"Please what?" he asks.  That little game they always used to play.  Yuri always was one for begging.  So hard and sharp for the rest of the world and fucking putty for him when they'd get going.  
  
"Please fuck me," Yuri hisses out as Otabek slides a hand up his thigh, brushes against the bulge in the front of his tight leather pants.    
  
"Get these off," he tells Yuri and tugs at the waist of his pants before he stands up, moves to where he has his bag stashed in the corner and digs through it for a little thing of lube and a condom.  Yuri's shuffling out of the leather, heels abandoned on the floor and scoots back up onto the couch as Otabek comes back.   
  
Otabek moves back behind Yuri, slides a hand up a leg and leans to drag his mouth across the small of Yuri's back.  He pushes what passes as a shirt up Yuri's back, his other hand sliding further up his leg to brush his knuckles teasingly against Yuri's balls, reveling in the hiss Yuri gives, the shudder of the body under his hands. 

He pauses as his eyes linger on the dots and line in black ink on the back of Yuri's shoulder.  The watercolour swirls of teal and yellow.  His sign spelled out on Yuri's body, his nation's colours that had once marked Yuri _his_ and his alone, and he thinks about Yuri's sign on the back of his own shoulder, the splash of red and blue. The day they got them done etched into his memory.  Carefree and happy, so fucking in love they'd never thought it change.  Now just a cruel reminder of what they'd lost, how naive they had once been to be so sure of the permanence of _them_.

He drops his gaze, slicks his fingers, teases over Yuri’s hole and sighs in relief at the gasps Yuri gives. He had missed this. Had fucked more people than he wanted to think about in a vain attempt to get even a fraction of what Yuri had made him feel those years ago. But none of them had been close.  Nothing had ever felt like it felt with Yuri, no body had ever felt the same under his hands.  He sinks a finger in, groans at the tight heat and works a second in.

It's muscle memory. The same muscle memory that even now would know exactly how to edge his blade for take off.  The things ingrained into him that have never faded, even if he wanted them to. His fingers curl _just so_ and Yuri grips the top of the couch. A low moan as Otabek reaches that little bundle of nerves.

“Fuuuuuck,” Yuri drawls out. “Beka… fuck…”

Otabek stills, bites on his lip and then shakes his head. “Don't,” he hisses.

“Don't what? Beka don't stop… why'd you stop,” Yuri asks as he presses his hips back trying to fuck himself on Otabek's fingers.

“Don't call me that - Beka,” and he's not entirely sure why it's suddenly an issue. Just that it is. Just that they don't feel like Yura and Beka. Not anymore.

He doesn't have to see it to know Yuri is rolling his eyes. “Jesus, you're so weird,” Yuri huffs, a huff that turns into a moan as Otabek slips another finger in him.  Otabek uses his free hand to tug at his belt and the fly of his pants, works his aching hard cock out and leans over Yuri again, mouth against his spine as he scissors his fingers.

“Beka…” Yuri moans out again and Otabek nips none to gently at his skin.

“I said don't,” he reminds Yuri.

“Fuck you, I'll call you whatever I want,” Yuri snaps and Otabek pulls his fingers out. There's a whine from Yuri at the sudden empty feeling but Otabek quickly tears open the condom, rolls it over his length and thrusts his dick into Yuri roughly and silences it. Otabek knows there's probably not enough lube. He knows he probably should have prepped Yuri more.  He knows that there's gonna be that edge of _hurt_ before it fades into pleasure.  But he knows Yuri will feel this in the morning and that edges out the other two concerns. And Yuri, he remembers well, always did like it a little rough when he got like this.

Otabek reaches around and wraps his fingers around Yuri’s dick, works him in time to the desperate thrusts. The sound of skin hitting skin, groans and hitched breaths fill the backroom, off time to the thump of the bass from the club. Otabek isn't going to last. Not like he _wants_ to. It's been too long and Yuri feels too perfect around him. Under him. All pliant whining as he presses Yuri’s face into the couch, as he pushes himself in deep and hard.

“Fuck, baby - Yuri - forgot how fucking good you feel,” he babbles, lost to the sensation of being lost in Yuri.

He thrusts through his own orgasm, he's not sure _how_ . Except maybe because it was _Yuri_ .  That it was always a point of pride when it was Yuri to give as good as he got.  That his own pleasure would always come second to Yuri's. Snaps his hips and jerks his hand until he feels Yuri’s come in his fingers and then collapses - a heap of sweaty limbs on the couch and _fuck_ … he'd forgotten how it felt to feel this far gone.

Yuri laughs. Rolls his head to the side to see Otabek and smirks that little smirk. His skin is flushed and eyes still dark and Otabek thinks maybe he's still in love.  That he never _stopped_ being in love and fuck if that didn't make him all sorts of pathetic.

“Shit, Beka…” a pause as Yuri laughs again. “I missed your fucking dick,” he says and lets his head fall back against the couch as his eyes close.

Otabek huffs. “Thanks, I guess?”  He pulls off the condom and ties it. There's a shelf with some spare rolls of toilet paper and he makes his way over, belt buckle clanking. He balls the condom up some paper and tosses it.  Wipes his hands and throws the roll at Yuri to clean up.

Yuri’s hair is a disaster, his eyeliner smudged and a sheen of sweat on his skin. Otabek thinks it's the most beautiful sight he's seen in years. He tries to fix it, smooths down the worst of the mess and swipes his thumbs under Yuri's eyes. Yuri huffs and swats his hand away.

"Will I see you again?" Otabek can't help but ask.

Yuri shrugs. "Maybe."  There's a smirk and then Yuri is gone. Out the door and back into the crowd and that night Otabek falls asleep with the most dangerous of words ringing in his ears.

_Maybe._

* * *

 

It's after Barcelona all over again and suddenly Yuri is just _there_ .  Everywhere.  In every thought and in every little space.  Nothing and then _everything_ .  Otabek has no idea _how,_ but Yuri has his number.  A text sent at three in the morning declaring as such.  For the life of him Otabek doesn't even know _why_ Yuri is texting him.  Or why he's texting back.  It's been years.  There's so much between them and neither of them is mentioning it.  Instead Yuri's texting him about some cat he brought in off the street.  Tossing names back and forth as Yuri sends an endless stream of photos. 

 

 

> ✉ Can anything really top Puma Tiger Scorpion though?
> 
> ✉ lion jaguar anaconda
> 
> ✉ You're reaching, Yuri.

  
The next night it's a play by play of three episodes of _House Hunters_.

 

 

> ✉ how are people still this obsessed with fucking granite countertops????
> 
> ✉ #whitepeople
> 
> ✉ omg he uses a hashtag

The night after that Otabek finds himself with his hand curled around his cock as Yuri texts him nothing but sinful filth.  A running commentary of exactly what he wants Otabek to do to him in that particular moment.  The kind of texts that should make him blush but just makes him _want._ The kind of texts that used to get him through countless lonely nights when five thousand kilometers spread between them and this was all they had.    
  
Yuri, it seemed, had never lost his sexting touch.  
  
There's photos too, the kind that Otabek used to have hundreds of in a hidden folder in his phone.  As brash and unfiltered as Yuri himself.  And Otabek saves every one.  Makes a new folder and fills it up.  Stares at them and tries not to think about that while Yuri had _always_ been slender he's down right _thin_ now.  Skin and bones and none of those long and lean muscles that he'd had when they'd been skating.  Tries not to think about the cocaine he knows Yuri does on a regular basis, the diet that probably consists of not much more than that and alcohol.  It's not his place anymore.  To worry.  To say anything. 

After all, they aren't _together_ .  Otabek's not even sure if they're even _friends_.  They're just fucking around.

 

 

> ✉ I missed your dick, too
> 
> ✉ jesus, beka, you're such a sentimental asshole

 

* * *

 

  
Yuri is there every night Otabek works.  A constant in the mass of people on the dance floor.  Eyes burning bright every time Otabek looks up from his rig and out over the crowd.  They dance when Otabek isn't working hips pressing close, glorified grinding to a beat.  They fuck in the backroom, in the bathroom.  Otabek quickly becomes addicted again, quickly remembers how there was no better drug than Yuri Plisetsky.  That old familiar thrill at every flash of green eyes, at every little ping of his phone with a text.

Yuri drags him to some fancy penthouse apartment.  But Otabek doesn't take him back to his place.  He can't.  It feels like a line that he knows if he crosses there's no coming back from.  Even though he knows he's already so far gone.  But still.  He can pretend.  He can fake that he still has some semblance of control over all of this. 

"Stay," Yuri says one night, tangled in the sheets of the king sized bed.  Vaguely Otabek wonders how Yuri is even affording this.  He knows the sponsorships, the endorsement deals, all if it had gone down the drain with Yuri's career.  After all, he hadn't gone out in a blaze of glory on the ice.  There wasn't some epic story.  There was just a dumb twenty year old kid who started to spend more time in the clubs than the ice and broke his leg.  But he doesn't ask.  Maybe he doesn't want to know the answer.

Otabek lifts his hips from the bed to slide on his jeans and looks back at Yuri.  He looks vulnerable somehow and Otabek remembers Yuri the hurricane.  Yuri the fucking force of nature that blew past everything and everyone in his path.  Untouchable by everyone except him and how fucking _special_ he used to feel because of that.  How special he _still_ feels. Otabek reaches forward and dusts his fingers across Yuri's cheekbone.  "I can't," he answers.  There's no excuse given.  Just the truth.  He can't stay.  He can't give in more than he already is. 

Yuri's eyes narrow and he shuffles out of the bed, wrapping the top sheet around his frame as he moves to the bathroom and Otabek jumps at the slam of the door.  He finds his keys, wallet and phone and leaves.  He's thinks that maybe he's fucked this up, that Yuri will take the rejection too much to heart and this - whatever _this_ was - would be over as quick as it had begun.

There's a voice of logic and reason from the back of his mind that says maybe that would be for the best.

But three hours later he gets a text.

 

> ✉ i'm signing us up for house hunters  
>  ✉ get your arguments about paint colour and man caves ready

Otabek smiles and thumbs out a reply.

 

> ✉ Stop watching shitty television, Yuri

 

* * *

 

It's half past eleven and Otabek is slated to go on in twenty. But for now he's at the back bar. It's quieter there. Comparatively at least. Used for table service and the VIP area only it at least doesn't have a line twenty deep and Otabek sips on his drink as he looks over the crowd. He won't admit it but he's looking for Yuri. For another fix of his drug of choice.

But he doesn't see him. And he doesn't want to  be disappointed, but he is. His phone weighs heavy in his pocket and he knows he could just text. Ask of Yuri had plans. But he can't bring himself to do so.

So Nina’s appearance at the end of the bar is a welcome distraction from the spiraling thoughts.  A petite brunette that Otabek had taken a liking to the moment he'd started working at the club.  She sets her tray down and flashes Otabek a smile as she rattles off an order to the bartender, Jack.

“Oh my god this group in VIP right now… fuck I've never seen anything like it -" Nina starts after she's given the order. “They’re Russian or something and shit they can drink.” 

Jack works through the drink order, gives a glance over to Otabek whose brow had perked at the word _Russian_.  “Corbin was talking about them earlier. Vadik something or other. Business guys but he's straight up convinced they're mafia or something,” the bartender says as he finishes off the order.  Nina thanks him and Otabek watches her as she heads back to her table.

There's about ten men by Otabek's count. Definitely Russian.  And in the middle, perched on the lap of who Otabek could only assume was Vadik by the way the others gravitated around him was Yuri.  Blond hair loose down his back, pale skin glowing in the dim lighting and those fucking heels on his feet. He watches as Vadik lifts a drink up for Yuri. Vadik has an arm curling around him and even from here Otabek sees the gesture for what it was. _Possessive_ . Yuri takes a drink and for a moment his eyes look over at the bar. At _Otabek_ **.** But only for a moment before fingers curl around his chin and force his attention back to the man whose lap he's perched on.

Yuri throws his head back as he laughs at something, slender fingers running down Vadik's chest and Otabek wants to punch someone. 

Nina comes back, tray empty and she follows Otabek's line of sight back to the table. She leans back against the bar and laughs. “Shit I bet you twenty that blond calls him Daddy,” she says lightly, of course not knowing the goddamn inferno of jealousy those words ignite in Otabek.

Otabek downs his drink.  “I gotta go get ready,” he tells Nina and heads through the crowd to the backroom without a second look.  

 

* * *

 

Yuri Plisetsky had become a glorified ghost online following his retirement.  The last Instagram post a photo from the press conference announcing the move and a few words that sounded more like some publicist than Yuri himself.  Otabek knows this because even an ocean away he had obsessively followed Yuri on Instagram, on Twitter, on a hundred other places and tried to convince himself it _didn’t mean anything_.  It was just habit.  After all, he'd spent half his life following Yuri, why would it be any different after they'd broken up.  
  
Now though, now there’s little out there.  The odd profile in a sports magazine, the mention of his name when another season passes and no one has managed to break the records he left in his wake.  The inevitable question of what any given competition would have looked like had Yuri still been in it.  Yuri's career had been five years, but it had left a lasting mark on the skating world. 

There's the odd blurry cell phone photo from the more obsessive members of the now defunct _Yuri’s Angels_.  The odd gossip article.  Fragments of a life that Otabek is no longer a part of.  So it takes a bit, but finally he finds it.  A mention a few months ago in some trashy Russian tabloid site.  Sensationalized speculation.  The photos are grainy, but he’d recognize Yuri anywhere.  And Vadik.  
  
Vadik Kozlov.  The young and handsome heir to his family’s multi billion dollar collection of businesses and oil investments.  A cunning business man who _defines_ _a new generation of the post Soviet Russian Oligarch_ according to one article.  A sub headline under a photo, Vadik's strong features and sharp eyes staring up at Otabek from the screen.  And Otabek shudders to think that Corbin might not have been that far off.  Vadik is handsome, almost alarmingly so, but there's a _look_ in his eyes that makes Otabek's blood run cold.  Like he wouldn't think twice about stepping over anything and _anyone_ that got his way.  That Russians didn't get to the top without crawling over the people below them. 

Otabek spirals.  Follows every little crumb and trail.  Runs into the same photos over and over again and obsessively tries to find something new in them.  Tries to piece together a relationship he's now realizing he's a third wheel to.  That he's the _other man_ to. 

Yuri texts.  He ignores it.  And the one after that and the four that follow.  When the phone rings he lets the call go to voicemail.  Finds another site.  Another set of grainy photos.  Another documented night out that makes it more and more clear that Yuri isn't Vadik's _boyfriend_ , that Yuri is a _possession_ .  Like the hotels and the publishing company.  Like the oil investments and the nightclubs.    
  
_You can save him_ he thinks, but shoves the thought aside for what it was.  Some romantic notion that wasn't grounded in any form of reality.  He wasn't that person anymore.  He wasn't the _Hero of Kazakhstan_ rescuing teenage boys in the alley from legions of rabid fans.  And Vadik wasn't that.  Rabid fans with cat ears and cell phones at the ready.  And Yuri wasn't a teenage boy anymore.  He was all grown up and capable of making his own decisions.  Besides, despite the past few weeks he wasn't Beka and Yuri wasn't Yura.  They hadn't been for a very long time. 

There was just Otabek and Yuri. Shadows of people who had once been great.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: this chapter has mentions of physical abuse - the abuse itself is not shown but the aftermath is. Just a heads up.

_I should have fallen out of love with you by now_  
_But I've got part, I've got a piece_  
_I've got a heart permanently bound to you_  
_Should have forgotten what I felt for you by now_  
_But I got a part, part of me that's permanently bound to you_

 

  
The knock at his door pulls him from a light sleep.  He blinks at the tv screen, the _are you still watching..._ message cementing the past four hours of his life.  He drags a hand across his face as he gets up and goes to the door.  He should be surprised as he opens the door to Yuri.  But he's not.  "What are you doing here?" he asks as he steps aside to let Yuri in.  
  
"You're not texting back," Yuri spits out, but the anger fades and he glances down at his shoes, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.  "Did I do something wrong?" he asks, voice small.  
  
There's the first reaction.  The one that screams at him to gather Yuri up, tug him into his arms and assure him that no, he didn't do anything wrong.  How could he.  He's reminded of countless nights.  When the mask of Yuri Piletsky faded into Yura.  His beautiful and broken Yura.  The wounded boy under the brash man.  All those nights when Otabek tried to piece him back together, bandage up all those cracks with hushed words of love and adoration.  

It really had been a fool's errand.  
  
Otabek leans against the back of the couch.  Hates himself a little as the words fall from his mouth.  "Figured you'd be busy with your boyfriend."  Watches as the words wash over Yuri, watches the flicker of hurt.  Hates himself a little that it sparks this little fire of vindication in him.

"It's not - It's not like that," Yuri says and Otabek just gives him a look.  "Okay, it's _sort_ of like that," Yuri clarifies.  

"Why are you here, Yuri?" Otabek asks.

Yuri moves from the doorway and moves closer to Otabek. He stops just shy of Otabek and Otabek remember when he used to have to look down at Yuri. Then that brief time when they were eye to eye and then the first time they saw each other when Yuri had finally surpassed him - and all the growing pains in between.

"I missed you," Yuri says, toe digging into the ground, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. Worn converse and a hoodie that Otabek swears is his from years ago. A far cry from the tight leather pants and studded heels he wore in the club.  It's always been the duality of Yuri that's kept him.  And Yuri is just as breathtakingly gorgeous in the sneakers and hoodie.  He always was.

"I thought you just missed my dick," he answers, echoing Yuri’s statement.

Yuri smirks, takes another step in. His arms loop around Otabek's waist. "Well, that's _part_ of it," he admits.  His head ducks down and he ghosts lips over the side of Otabek's neck, up the muscle there to that spot behind his ears that's always driven him nuts.

"Yuri…" he's not sure if it's a protest or a request for more. His hands hover over hips before he grips them, his head falling back to give access to Yuri.

"He doesn't do to me the things you can do." Otabek can _feel_ the smirk on Yuri's lips as those words send a shudder through his body. "No one can."

That's all it takes and Otabek curls an arm around Yuri’s waist and easily turns them, pressing Yuri up against the back of the couch.  He shouldn't want Yuri this much still, but he does.  He shouldn't be taking pride in those words _he doesn't do to me the things you can do._  But he is.  He shouldn't be dragging his mouth along Yuri's jaw, shouldn't be tugging at the hem of the hoodie to pull it up and off of him.  He shouldn't be getting so damn hard just _thinking_ about this, but he is.  And as wrong as it was before he knows it's even worse now.  " _Yuri…_ " a pause, he swallows.  He looks up at Yuri, meets those green eyes dark with desire and lust.  A look he's always been helpless again.  "Tell me again," he says where he should be saying no, where he should be saying go home.    
  
"I _missed_ you," Yuri says, a low moan as Otabek presses into him against the couch, as lips trail a path down the side of his neck.  "I missed how good it always was," a shudder as Otabek slipped his hand under the t-shirt and raked blunt nails over Yuri's side.  "Fuck - Beka…" a whine more than anything.  "Beka no one's ever fucked me like you, no one's ever made me feel…" Yuri trails off as Otabek fell to his knees, looking up from under long lashes as he pushes Yuri's shirt up and teases his mouth low on Yuri's abdomen.    
  
Otabek pulls back enough to speak, lips still ghosting against Yuri's skin as he does.  "Keep talking," he instructs.

Yuri slides a hand into Otabek's hair, the other pressing onto the top of the couch.  "Thought about you so much, Beka…" there's a shudder as Otabek's fingers brushed over where his dick was pressing against the confines of his jeans and Yuri bucked into the touch a little.  "Thought about how good your mouth feels, how good your cock feels…."  
  
Otabek deftly works Yuri's fly open and mouths at the bulge in his boxer briefs.  " _Beka…_ " Yuri hisses above him, fingers gripping the longer strands of his hair.  "Keep going, fuck Beka please keep going…"  

Otabek obliges, hands sliding up the inside of Yuri's thighs as he teases him through the boxer briefs.  "You thought about this?" Otabek asks, his mouth still on the outline of Yuri's cock and his eyes dark as they glance up at the blond above him.  

Yuri nods, lower lip between his teeth.  "Yes, God yes, Beka… all the fucking time.."  
  
Otabek tugs at Yuri's jeans and boxer briefs, freeing his cock as he keeps his eyes upward, watching.  He keeps a hand on Yuri's hip, the other curling around the base of his cock as his tongue drags up the underside.  "Did you get yourself off, thinking about it?" Otabek asks.    
  
There's a groan from Yuri as he nods and Otabek can't help the jolt of satisfaction that runs through him at that.  His hand gives Yuri a few strokes before he leans forward and takes him into his mouth, nose pressing against the neatly trimmed hair at the base of Yuri's cock.  He moans softly against the length as he feels Yuri's nails scrape against his scalp, the hand against Yuri's hip holding him back from thrusting forward.  He works his mouth over Yuri's length, tongue darting out to tease at his slit as he comes up.  

And he knows - knows exactly how to bring Yuri to the edge.  Just the way to tease, the right way to hollow his cheeks, how it drives Yuri insane when he takes him all the way down to the hilt, his tongue pressing flat against the underside of Yuri's cock as he swallows around the length of it.  

"Beka… Beka… fuck I'm gonna - so fucking close…" Yuri rambles above him and Otabek doesn't need to hear it to know.  That tell tale shake in Yuri's thighs, the way his voice takes on that desperate and breathy tone, the way his fingers flex and tangle in his hair.  And Otabek - Otabek pulls off with a _pop_ that echoes in the quiet of the living room and smirks as Yuri _glares_.  

Otabek stands and swallows Yuri's whine with his mouth, his tongue licking at the roof of Yuri's mouth.  Yuri presses forward, desperate for friction now that Otabek's mouth is gone and Otabek breaks the kiss.  He smirks again and grabs Yuri's hand.  "Come on, let's go to the bedroom…"

 

* * *

 

 

 

> ✉ You wanna go for a ride?
> 
> ✉ you have to fucking ask?
> 
> ✉ Pick you up in twenty.
> 
>  

The thing was, he didn't even know _where_ they were going.  Just that they _were_ .  Just that it'd been way too long since he'd had his bike out for anything other than his commute.  And damn too long since he's had Yuri on the back of it.  
  
It takes them forever to get out of the city. Traffic was a bitch but finally - _finally_ \- Otabek hits a clear stretch of road and can speed up. Yuri's arms are tight around his midsection, gripping at the turns and it feels like eight years ago.  It feels like time hadn't ravaged them beyond recognition, like they were still just Yura and Beka.  Otabek doesn't want it to end, but he runs out of road, runs of places they can run to.  Hits the ocean he'd put between them, the one that in the end hadn't done a damn thing in making him move on.  He drives to the tip of Montauk Point and parks.  

It's chilly on the beach. Empty in the off season without all the tourists to buzz about. They're quiet as they sit, watching the waves crash. Yuri leans into Otabek's side and lays his head on his shoulder. And for a moment Otabek can almost forget. About their history and what laid in the rubble between them.  About the things that tore them apart. About the fights and the resentments. The pain and the anger. About Vadik and the very real fact that _Yuri is not his._

Yuri’s hand slides down Otabek's arm and laces their fingers together. His eyes reflect the tumultuousness of the waves in front of them as he steals a glance up at Otabek.  Those eyes that have lingered at the edges of every moment of his life since he was twelve and Otabek reaches a hand, brushes some hair from Yuri's face and smiles.  Just a little curl of the corners of his mouth, that soft little thing that he'd always reserved for Yuri and Yuri alone.  The one that hadn't seen much use these past years.

“Remember that beach in Barcelona?” Yuri asks, like Otabek could ever forget. A moment cemented in his memory for better or worse.  A moment that had back then felt like the start of something bigger than himself.  They'd sat close then too, and Otabek had all but forgotten how to _breathe_ .  His jacket around Yuri's shoulders, slender fingers poking out of the too long sleeves.  The way it had felt to feel like he was suddenly part of something bigger than himself.  That he no longer just _existed_ in the world of Yuri Piletsky but that he was a _part of it_ too.  

How even now, knowing the end of the story and the world of pain between then and this moment, he knows it'd do it all over again.

Otabek nods and squeezes Yuri's hand. “Of course.".

“We never did go back,” Yuri points out.

Plans they'd had for so long.  A trip brought up as every anniversary neared.  Maybe this year.  This off season.  This two week stretch when we might be able to carve some spare time.  Plans made in the early hours of a morning when life didn’t seem quite as crazy as it was. Plans that had always gotten put on hold for other plans. Plans that eventually got lost along the way. Otabek thinks there’s a metaphor in there somewhere.  

Otabek shrugs. “We got busy.”  The easier answer.  It was truth of course.  They had careers, they had goals. They had so many things that had always taken a place above their relationship.  A fact Otabek hadn't even realized until all was said and done, a fact he was still having trouble coming to grips with.  That they had _let_ anything matter more than them.

And that was that. Silence falls between them again. But it's not uncomfortable. It was soothing in its odd little way.  Like how silences used to be between them what felt like a lifetime ago.  A silence that didn’t _demand_ to be filled because it was just enough to sit there in each other’s space.  It was enough to just _be._  But like everything it has to end and the air cools more as the sun sinks behind them.  Late afternoon sliding into evening.

“We should head back,” Otabek says gently as he nudges Yuri.

“Or we could stay,” Yuri suggests as he looks up at Otabek. Eyes hopeful and Otabek knows his protests will be weak at best.

They find a hotel not far from the beach. Otabek uses the last bit of credit left on his card to get them a room. And it's been just long enough that the whole idea of it - the key card, the little bottles of shampoo and conditioner, the smell of unfamiliar detergent and leaflets on the desk feels like a novelty again. Otabek watches as Yuri moves through the room, fingers dragging over the dresser, the desk, the nightstand and then finally the bed before he flops down on the mattress with a lack of grace that couldn't be anything but purposeful.

“Beeeeeka,” he drawls out with a playful smirk as he pats the empty space beside him on the bed.

Otabek can't help but grin. He kicks his boots off and moves to the bed. He leans over Yuri, laughs softly and dips his head down to capture Yuri's lips. They fall back onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and roaming hands.  Breathy little moans between kisses.  Teasing because they _can_ .  Because this isn't the backroom and the club and they have the time.  How they're only a handful of hours away from the city but it feels like a different country, like they'd removed themselves from reality.  If only for a night.   He ducks his head, nuzzles into the side of Yuri's neck and peppers the softest little kisses there.    
  
"Beka," Yuri says in a sigh, fingers threading through Otabek's hair as he wraps his legs around the other's waist.  "Wanna feel you," he continues, hips pressing up and Otabek groans.  "Wanna feel you in me, fuck Beka you always feel so good in me…"  
  
Otabek's lips brush against Yuri's skin as he talks, grinding down against Yuri as the other presses up again, the words going right to him and he can feel himself straining against the confines of his jeans.  "Fuck, baby.  We - I - I don't have anything," he gets out, and mouths at Yuri's collarbone.  Careful not to leave a mark.  Careful like he used to be those nights during competitions, those moments in hotel rooms in all corners of the world.  Moments that had felt like the most important thing he'd ever have.  Screw the medals, screw the standings and the future of Kazakhstan's skating program.  He'd had Yuri Plisetsky beneath him and that had mean more than all of that combined and then some.

He lifts his head as he feels Yuri's hand slip between them and start to dig in his jacket pocket.  There's a flash of mischief in those green eyes as he grins and holds out a small bottle of lube.  Otabek can't help but laugh, his forehead falling against Yuri's.  "You always wander around with lube in your pocket?" he asks, a teasing tone to the words.  
  
"Only when I'm going somewhere with you," Yuri clarifies and sets the bottle down beside them before he starts tugging at Otabek's shirt.  "Now stop laughing and fuck me, Beka," he demands.  

Otabek complies, grips the hem of his shirt and tosses it off.  Grabs Yuri's hand and pulls him up so he can push the jacket off of him as he leans in to kiss him before parting to tug Yuri's shirt off.  His eyes roam Yuri's body and his fingers dust over the same trail, touch light and teasing.  He looks up to catch Yuri's eyes on him.  Heavy lidded and dark with want.  Otabek wonders how he could have ever thought he'd want anything else in his life than that look right there.

He takes his time.  Undressing Yuri slowly with his hands and his mouth on every newly exposed patch of skin.  Worshipping, pulling Yuri apart bit by bit.  Mapping every inch of Yuri's body and every touch speaking the words he doesn't dare say.   _I still want you, I still love you, I'll always love you.._

It's different when he finally sinks into Yuri.  Not nearly the same desperate and quick fucks they had fallen into.  No, it's slow and purposeful.  Hands lacing together above Yuri's hand, the drag of his cock in Yuri's ass slow and steady.  Eyes locking together as they move - Yuri's hips pressing up to every thrust Otabek gives.  Yuri's legs are wrapped around Otabek's waist, pulling him in as close as humanly possible.  Mouths meeting, open and messy and not even a kiss really.  Just touch.  Touch because they can, because they suddenly feel so overwhelmed with the _need_ to.  

Otabek can't help but think of the words that used to pass between them when they were like this.  All those promises, those declarations.  Those things that they had once thought as complete truth.  

But they're silent now.  Save for the soft moans, the hitched breaths, the little gasps as they come together.

 

* * *

 

Otabek is settled between Yuri's legs, his head on Yuri's thigh as he draws his fingers up the line of a calf.  Over the scar left behind from the surgery - the scar that matches the one he himself had on the side of his left knee.  He thinks about the press releases he had read when Yuri had gotten hurt.  About the metal plate and the screws under the skin he grazes.  He turns his head, presses a kiss to the inside of Yuri's thigh and smirks at the shudder it elicits.  

  
"You could have gone back," he says.  He doesn't have to spell it out what means.  They both knew.  

Yuri had still been young, still had years if he had wanted them.  Otabek had never quite understood why he hadn't fought his way back.  Why he had let the injury end it all for him he never could figure out.

  
"No," Yuri says with a shake of his head.    
  
Otabek doesn't press.  He won't. He knows better than that.  Yuri did things on his own time, Yuri spoke when he wanted to speak and not a moment before.  Pressing only pushed him away.  It had always been like that.  So instead he draws an idle pattern along the scar and then over Yuri's knee, eyes watching his fingers and fighting the urge to look back up at Yuri.

He waits.  And then Yuri speaks again.  "What was the point," he starts.  "You were gone, Viktor was gone, Katsudon... fuck even goddamn JJ had retired and left me with his little brother who somehow managed to be even more fucking obnoxious than him," he pauses, slips his fingers in Otabek's hair and presses his lips together.  "No one was _surprised_ anymore, it wasn't fun when no one gave a shit when I won - because they always just assumed I _would._ "    
  
Otabek hums against Yuri's thigh.  Idly he wonders if Yuri realizes how much like Viktor he sounded right then.  Lamenting that no one was surprised by him anymore. 

"Whatever, fuck it, it's done," Yuri adds hastily and peers down at Otabek.  "You gonna do something down there or not?" he asks with a raise of a brow and Otabek sees the challenge for what it was.  

A distraction.

* * *

 

There's a ledge under the window in his room that he’d tossed some throw pillows on and called a day. An attempt at something akin to a window seat that he's never even used. Some romantic idea of lazing there with a book and a cup of tea that had long since fallen by the wayside. But Yuri - Yuri fits there so perfectly with his fingers curled around a mug, some oversized sweater that slips off his shoulder and his knees pulled into his chest, eyes filled with some indescribable look as he stares out the window. Otabek's fingers itch and before he even realizes it he has his phone out and snaps the image. Both capturing and ruining the moment. Yuri shifts, sets the mug down in front of him and lets his fingers worry at a snag in his sweater.

“Are you happy here, Beka?” he asks, voice quiet.

Otabek shrugs. Sets his phone down and reaches for his shirt on the floor. “Sure, I guess yeah,” he answers noncommittally and tugs the shirt on before raking a hand through his hair. He'd never imagined he'd end up living in America again.  Never thought he'd settle somewhere like New York.  But St Petersburg and Almaty had held too many memories, too many ghosts and starting over had held some kind of romantic appeal when everything had blown up.  But the city isn't bad, he likes his gig at the club, likes the people he works with.  Likes the way Yuri takes up that little space under the window and how it makes him feel like this is more than what it is.

“I could be happy here,” Yuri adds and turns his gaze to Otabek.

Otabek doesn't know what to make of that.  Of the offer it feels like but he doesn't want to hope it is.  And even if it _was_ … there was so much between them still.  So much they hadn't even brought up let alone worked through.  He knows it would never be as easy as just falling back into a relationship they burned to the ground.  So he deflects.  “I don't think your boyfriend would be too keen on that,” he points out and starts to tug on a pair of jeans.

Yuri looks back out the window, folds his arms on his knees and lays his head down. “He's never around,” he admits. And Otabek hates the defeated tone in his voice. Yuri Plisetsky didn't do defeat.  Even at the worst there was always that fight, that _spark_ .   "You know I don't even know if he knows," Yuri continues, "about this… _us_.  I don't know if he'd even care.  He wants me when he wants me and the rest of the time…" he shrugs.  

He wants to say something better, something comforting. Anything other than what comes out of his mouth. “That still doesn't make this right.”  For the life of him Otabek isn't sure what he means by that. An accusation. A statement of facts. A pointing out of the moral ambiguity of the situation they've found themselves in.  

Yuri nods. “I know.”

Otabek watches him for a moment. The subtle dusting of freckles on the shoulder left bare by the sweater. The dark circles under dull green eyes. The way Yuri looks like he wants nothing more than to curl into himself and never be seen again. It breaks his heart.  It sounds lonely, being _kept_ .  Being someone's thing and not someone's equal.  He feels the now familiar anger, boiling just under the surface toward a man he's never met.  A man he's not entirely sure wouldn't kill him on sight for having Yuri here.  A man he knows he _should_ be afraid of but just loathes instead.  
  
He moves closer, cups Yuri’s face gently when he looks up and lets his thumb brush against his cheekbone. Otabek drops the hand and picks up the discarded mug, moves to the kitchen and starts them dinner.

 

* * *

 

"We should move," Yuri says suddenly, breaking the quiet that had fallen between them as they laid in the bed.  Their skin still with a sheen of sweat from the sex, a tacky feeling between them that Otabek knows they'll have to move soon to remedy.  But he doesn't mind it for a few more minutes, the closeness as they came down more than worth it.

Otabek lifts his head from Yuri's chest, brow raised.  " _Move?_ " he questions.

Yuri nods.  "Yeah - to Barcelona.  You and me, like we always said we would."

Otabek wants to point out that they'd never wanted to _move_.  Just go back.  He wants to point out that there's a large flaw in Yuri's plan. Namely Yuri's boyfriend.  He wants to be angry at the suggestion.  Like it's some cruel joke really.  They weren't going to move to fucking Barcelona.  This was going to end and it was going to end messy.  How could it do anything but when Yuri was someone else's.  Affairs didn't end with happily ever after.  They ended with tears and resentment.  With broken hearts and from what Otabek has gleamed of Vadik he's pretty sure it's ending with broken bones.  

But Yuri's looking at him, this hopeful little gleam in his eyes.  This _spark_ that had been there so long ago.  The one Otabek hasn't seen in so long.  And he finds he can't.  Can't shoot down the idea, can't point out the reality of their situation.  Because he's always been a fucking sucker for that look.  

"What are we going to do in Barcelona?" he asks instead as he folds his hands on Yuri's chest and rests his chin in them.

"Well you can DJ," Yuri answers.  Otabek nods.  "And I…" Yuri trails off.  

That was always the moot point, wasn't it.  Yuri who had never thought past the ice.  Yuri who had never found anything else he might be good at.  Yuri who had put all his proverbial eggs into one basket.

"You can bartend at the club I DJ at," Otabek starts, buying into and spinning the fantasy further.  "You're hot so you'll keep us rolling in the cash with your tips, we can fuck in the bathroom on breaks.  It'll be good, working the same hours… we can sleep till noon and wake up and make breakfast.  Our apartment will have a little balcony.  We can just _barely_ make out Park Güell from it.  You'll tell me about all the shitheads you had to serve the night before…" Otabek smiles softly as Yuri's expression softens at the pretty picture.  
  
"And don't forget the cat," Yuri reminds Otabek.

Otabek grins.  "Of course.  Lion Jaguar Anaconda will be very happy in Barcelona," he answers.  

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Yuri goes radio silent and Otabek can only assume he's busy with Vadik. It's a strange sort of sensation. He'd never pictured himself in this situation before. Being the other person. Bit then he figures, did anybody?  Did anybody set out to become the one waiting with baited breath for the ding of a text, for when time could be stolen and carved out?  How could anybody want to be the person waiting in an empty apartment with nothing but a million twisted and jealous throughs running through their mind.  Even the nights he's at the club fail to really distract him.  He cleans his apartment top to bottom.  And then cleans it again.  
  
On the fourth day without even so much as a text there's a sinking feeling that settles into Otabek.  That nagging feeling that something isn't right.  He wants to text but he's not _supposed_ to text first. Still though - he has his fingers hovering over the keyboard arguing with himself when there's a knock at the door.  Otabek jumps at the sudden sound, dropping his phone.  He picks it up and heads to the door to answer, a sigh of relief seeing Yuri there.

"Can I come in?" Yuri asks, and the relief Otabek had felt quickly fades.  Yuri didn't _ask_ to come in.  He never did.  Otabek steps aside, let's Yuri in and closes the door behind them.  

"Yuri…" Otabek starts as he takes in Yuri's demeanour.  The hunched over posture, the way his eyes won't leave the ground.  The hood up over his hair and Otabek reaches to tug it down, pausing as Yuri flinches at the move.

"I - I'm sorry, Beka," Yuri starts as he stuffs his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.  "I should have texted instead of just…" he trails off as Otabek curls a finger gently under his chin.

Otabek lifts Yuri's chin and his breath hitches as he sees the mark on Yuri's cheek.  An ugly shade of splotchy red, already darkening into a bruise along the edges and Otabek's blood runs cold.  "What - Yuri…" he very, very gently reaches his other hand out to graze the tips of his fingers just below the mark.  "What happened?"

Yuri's lips press together, his eyes still on the ground.  "I don't know," he admits, which Otabek is about to interject at but Yuri continues.  "We got in a fight, it's nothing… new.  We fight, a lot.  But it's never -" Yuri starts to shake as he explains, a tremor in his body.  "I don't know, it all happened so fucking fast, Beka… I don't even remember what we were fucking fighting about and it just…" he trails off and shrugs.  "I don't know, Beka… I don't fucking know... "

Otabek pulls him in, arms circling around Yuri's trembling body.  And he's never hated anyone more than he hates Vadik in that moment.  He's never known hate in general the way he knows it then.  An all encompassing _anger_ at what the man had done.  It scares him.  The way he sees red at the words, the way he wants nothing more than to… he tries to focus on Yuri instead.  On the body that's trembling in his arms, the shaky breathing that sounds almost like crying.  Tries to focus on his own breathing, on trying to calm the _rage_ that runs just under his skin.  

Otabek takes Yuri's hand and pulls him into the bedroom.  He flips the switch for the lamp on the bedside table, throwing a soft light through the room.  His turns back to Yuri and cups his face tenderly, brushes his lips lightly against Yuri's jaw and then reaches to push back the hood of his hoodie.  He fingers undo the zipper and he gently pulls the garment off.  And that anger, that rage, it flares again as he sees the bruising on Yuri's biceps.  " _Yuri…_ " he breathes out, his voice shaky as he takes in the marks.  

He guides Yuri to the bed and they lay down, facing each other with their legs tangled.  Otabek has an arm around Yuri's waist, fingers drawing an idle pattern on the sliver of skin exposed from where his shirt had ridden up.  They're quiet for a long while, and Otabek waits until Yuri's shaking stops before he breaks the silence.  "You need to leave him," he says softly.  It's not an ultimatum.  Yuri does what Yuri wanted, always had.  But he has to at least say it.

Yuri shakes his head, his hands curled under his chin and he bites at his lip before he answers.  "I - I _can't_ ," he answers and Otabek hates how he sounds _scared_ right then.  Like it wasn't a matter of wanting or not wanting to, but rather a matter of what he can or can't do.  

Otabek can't help but wonder what Yuri had really gotten himself into.  

They're quiet again.  The sound of traffic filling the space.  The city that never slept indeed.  

"Yuri…" Otabek starts again.  
  
"It's okay, Beka -" Yuri interrupts him.  His gaze lifts up to Otabek's, eyes rimmed red despite the fact he hadn't actually cried.  Not really at least.  "It's okay… he'll get bored of me eventually," Yuri explains and Otabek can feel his heart breaking at the words.  "Everyone always does."  
  
Otabek swallows hard, lifts his hand to tuck some hair of Yuri's face.  "I never did," he points out.

Yuri doesn't look down as he answers.  "You still left."  

Otabek doesn't know what to say to that.  Yuri was right.  He had - left.  He'd stormed out and moved to a whole other fucking continent.  "I'm sorry," he settles on.  Words he's wanted to say for so long now.  "Yuri, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry… I shouldn't have…" his hand slides behind Yuri's neck and he presses their foreheads together.  "I thought it was right, I thought we were too damaged… and I've regretted it every single fucking day," he admits, his voice heavy with emotion.  

Yuri shifts down and tucks his head under Otabek's chin, his face pressing into Otabek's neck and Otabek can feel the wetness of the tears.  He cards his hands through Yuri's hair lightly and just let's Yuri _cry_ .  It's all he _can_ do.  And he keeps it up, even as Yuri's tears subside, even as Yuri calms down he keeps carding his fingers through hair, keeps running his other hand up and down the line of Yuri's spine.  

"Beka…" Yuri says softly as he pulls back and looks up at Otabek through wet eyelashes.  "Please don't leave me again."  
  
Otabek pulls him in closer, presses his lips to the top of Yuri's head and shakes his head.  "I won't," he promises.  Even as he knows he shouldn't. Even though he knows there's so much wrong about all of this.  Even though he has no idea if they can even make this work.  "Yuri… _Yura_ … I swear, I won't leave again."  And he knows he won't.  He'll be there till the bitter end, whatever that wound up being.  He'd wait as long as it took until he could call Yuri _his_ again.  He'd take whatever scrap was offered and wait with baited breath for more.

After all, he'd always had trouble saying no to Yuri.  

**Author's Note:**

> Yuri and Otabek's tattoos are something like [this](http://photos.worldtattoogallery.com/web/artist--chris-rigoni--constellation-tattoo_16298132558.jpg) but on a smaller scale with corresponding [zodiac](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/5f/5c/32/5f5c32fcafeb9c8948eba1ec113fc58f--zodiac-constellations-zodiac-constellation-tattoo.jpg) signs.


End file.
